One Worth Knowing
by Wynn
Summary: Eight months after Frank disappears, Karen finds an innocuous envelope on her desk. Without even opening it, she knows it's from him.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I expanded this into a full fic because of course I did. This ship has eaten my brain, and I couldn't be happier for it. I, of course, don't own Karen Page or Frank Castle. They're owned by Marvel, Netflix, etc. I'm just playing in their sandbox for non-profit, entertainment purposes for a while.

One Worth Knowing

By: Wynn

The message arrives in an innocuous envelope, a plain white one marked only with her name and the address of _The Bulletin_ , the two scrawled on the front in thick black ink. Karen doesn't even have to open it to know it's from him, from Frank, though almost eight months have passed since she last saw him. Eight months since ninjas besieged the city, since she saw Frank perched on the edge, literally and figuratively, his gun in hand.

Eight months since she told him he was dead to her if-

Karen closes her eyes and shakes away the thought. The thought, though, remains, lodged beside her others about him, with those about Matt and Wesley and her brother, too, all of them resistant to any and all forms of repression, no matter the amount of alcohol involved.

Ellison claims this is what makes her so damned good as a reporter. Her refusal to let things go.

Foggy says it's the source of the grey hair he's found sprouting from his head in recent months.

Karen- well, Karen just sighs and opens her eyes.

The envelope still lies on her desk. She picks it up and flips it over. No return address, of course. No postage of any kind. So it hadn't been mailed or delivered. Frank had brought it here himself. The thought of him entering the building without anyone seeing should make her afraid, she thinks, because who else could enter without detection, but her brain instead zeroes in on the fact that he brought it to her himself, that it hadn't been mailed or delivered, because if it had been mailed or or if it had been delivered, she could find him. Karen could track him those ways, and she could find more than the rumors she heard in her investigations or the careful evasions from Brett in their weekly coffee session.

But Frank hadn't delivered it. He hadn't mailed it.

Because he didn't want her to find him.

Karen drops the envelope at that and turns away. She shouldn't _want_ to find him. Jesus, she still had nightmares about the diner. And any whiff of smoke still reminded her of his house, charred and crumbling still when she arrived with Ellison the next day. There hadn't been any witnesses to the fire, of course, so Karen doesn't know if it was the cartel or the military or the Irish or someone else Frank crossed in his crusade.

She refuses to entertain the possibility that he set the blaze himself, though he had told her, he _told_ her as he shut the door to that shack, that he was already-

She pushes up from her chair and strides away from the desk.

A storm brewed over the city beyond her window. The weather wasn't as hot as it had been last year when they first met, but it was hot enough, hot enough that someone should have noticed the big man in the black coat, but no one wanted to notice, not anymore, not after the last few years. Looking meant knowing, and knowing meant death. But not knowing did, too. Karen had learned that the hard way. Fisk and the Hand operated in the shadows. So too had Reyes and the Colonel, all those that tried to sweep Frank and his family under the rug so they could continue to thrive.

Her jaw clenches then and her breath starts to come fast. Ellison claims this is the other thing that makes her so damned good as a reporter, her righteous rage, her refusal to cower to fear, even in the face of danger. And that was Frank. Danger. The gravest. He wore it like a brand on his chest, the spraypainted skull that haunted her dreams, superimposed on his face when she told him that he was dead to her if-

Karen turns from the window and eyes the envelope. He had pushed her away, told her to stay away from him, he shut the door to the shack and left her out in the cold, and for him to open it again... He wouldn't do that, not unless he had a reason. A good one, too. One worth knowing. This, more than anything, has her moving from the window back to her desk where she lifts and opens the envelope.

Inside she finds an index card, plain white like the envelope, this too bearing a scrawl of thick black ink. A look tells her it's an address; a quick search tells her it's for a diner in Queens. Her breath stops at the realization. The last time she sat in a diner with Frank… Karen drops the index card and runs her hands through her hair, tightening her fingers on the ends. He had seen her then, more than anyone else ever had, even more than Matt. And he had pushed. Frank cut to the quick, laid himself bare before her and demanded the same from her. And he would again, not from any malicious intent, or from _any_ intent really, Frank just honest, as blunt as the bullets he dealt from his guns.

But then he'd shut the door on her again and he'd walk away, maybe for months once more, but maybe for good this time, burning away the memory of her as he had his family when-

Karen jerks her hands down and grabs the card from her desk, nearly crushing it in her grip. No. Knowing may mean death, but knowing meant life too, and she wouldn't be swept back into the shadows, not again. And she wouldn't let Frank be either. He thanked her for it before, for helping him remember. He might not this time, but she refused to cower, even to Frank.

Grabbing her purse, Karen strides from the room. He didn't want her to find him, but he wanted them to meet. He had brought the note to her himself. He had brought _him_ to her himself. And whatever the reason, she would figure it out, death and closed doors be damned.

She spots him in the last booth, his back to the wall, every entrance and exit in view. The door closes with a jingle behind Karen, but she doesn't move from the entrance, not yet. Not until she settles. She had the entire drive to Queens to prepare for this, for seeing him again, but all of her efforts fade at the actual sight of him, alive, here, and breathing. As before, he wears black and a baseball cap pulled low, but even from this far and despite the shadows from his hat, she sees his face, free now from the bruises that mottled it eight months ago. Her shoulders relax at this only to tense again, the relaxation proof of her worry. Not for his actions, for the harm he might cause or the people he might kill, but for _him_.

Movement to her right drags her gaze away from Frank. Karen spots a waitress approach, an older woman with the nametag Barbara. Karen waves her off and points to Frank in the back. Barbara looks over at Frank, longer than a glance, long enough for Karen to turn as well. She sees the tail end of his nod, catches the reciprocated gesture from Barbara from the corners of her eyes. Whatever the danger posed to Frank in New York, the man still a fugitive, apparently here he was safe.

And so was she.

Karen starts forward then, her steps slow but thankfully steady. Frank tracks her as she approaches. He sits still, composed, save for the light tapping of one thumb against the handle of his mug. When her eyes drop to it, his do too and the movement stops. Up close, she sees faint scratches beneath one of his eyes. Other cuts mar his knuckles, along with a few bruises. Yet it's the dark swaths beneath his eyes that make her breath still in her chest, that speak to the life he's lived the past eight months, his nights spent as the Punisher.

"Wasn't sure you'd come," he says, breaking into her ruminations.

Karen stops before the booth. Her eyes flit away from his face, down to the table and then to the window, to the rain beginning to fall outside, but she feels the pull, the heavy weight of his gaze upon her, and she finds her eyes drifting back to him. "I wasn't sure either," she says after a beat. The words thankfully come as steady as her steps, though her pulse pounds in her ears.

Frank nods at that. His eyes search her face, slip lower down her body, perhaps to examine her as she examined him. Before she can decide though, he turns away, clearing his throat as he says, "Well, I'll get right to it then."

He reaches for something on the seat beside him. A second later a thick manila envelope pops into view. Karen frowns at it as she sits, as Frank places it on the table between them. Like the one he brought this morning, this one bears no markings. "What is it?" she asks, glancing up at him.

Frank glowers at the envelope, breathing fast. His hand tightens into a fist on the table, but he remains calm, blowing out a long breath as he says, "The truth."

Karen eyes the envelope again. "The truth?"

Frank nods. "About me. About why they wanted me dead. The military."

Karen inhales sharply. She looks up at Frank, finds him staring not at her but past her, his face softened by a smile. Karen can't resolve the discrepancy between the smile and his revelation until she hears Barbara approach. She tries to school her features into a similarly pleasant look and she must succeed for Barbara sends her a sweet smile before turning to Frank.

"Another refill, honey?"

Still smiling, Frank nods. He holds out his mug and Barbara fills it nearly to the brim, leaving no room for cream or sugar. Then she looks at Karen. "You want a menu or just coffee too?"

"Uh, coffee. Please. And thank you," she adds, trying to smile as Barbara nods.

They wait until she walks away before looking at each other again. Karen meant to interrogate Frank about the contents of the envelope, about the how of it and the why, but the questions fade at the way he regards her, his eyes fierce yet soft, and instead she says, "Why didn't you mail it to me?"

To that, Frank averts his gaze. He stares at the table a moment before taking a drink of his coffee. "It's the only copy I have," he says after swallowing. "Couldn't risk it getting lost."

Karen gives a short nod, less in acceptance of his response than in acknowledgement of it. Frank lowers his mug, but he doesn't meet her eyes again. He looks out the window instead, at the fat raindrops plopping onto the pavement. His thumb resumes its tattoo too, and the anger Karen felt as she paced in her office flames once again. She leans forward until she catches his eye and says to him, slowly, "Bullshit."

Something sparks in him at that, in his eyes. She doesn't know whether it's anger or amusement. He tilts his head back, peers at her a few seconds, then says, just as slowly, "Is that right?"

Karen nods. "You could have mailed this to me. Or had it delivered. Or you could have dropped it on my desk like you did the note." Frank breaks their stare then, but Karen refuses to let him evade, shifting back into his line of sight. "But you didn't do any of those. You asked me to come here instead. Why?"

Frank stays silent, though he doesn't drop her gaze this time. Karen's about to ask him why again when she hears Barbara approach. Leaning back, she smiles up at Barbara as the older woman sets a mug before her and fills it with fragrant coffee.

"You two let me know if you want anything else. Remember, on the house."

Frank nods and Karen does too. Barbara shuffles away, humming some indistinct melody. As she does, Karen reaches for two sugar packets. She rips them open, dumps them into her coffee, then grabs her napkin to unwind it from her silverware. Snatching up the spoon, she stirs in the sugar, her movements short and jerky.

"You're mad," Frank says after a moment.

Karen thwacks the spoon onto the table. "You're damned right I'm mad. Eight months, Frank." His jaw tightens then, but she plows on. The reckless center of her brain tells her it's because of, rather than despite, his irritation at her. "Eight months you're gone, you just disappear, nothing, and then you come back-"

"Are you mad that I left? Or that I didn't stay gone?"

Karen presses her lips together. The coffee's too hot to drink, but she drinks it anyway. Over the rim, she sees Frank smile, but it's one without humor.

"So you can dish out the questions, but you can't take 'em?"

Karen raises both brows. "I don't remember you answering mine."

There's a beat of silence and then his smile widens, turning genuine. Her angers fades at the sight of it; something else zips along her spine instead, something she eluded defining or confirming even as she pestered Brett for answers and pored through crime reports for information about the Punisher. Karen ducks her head and finds herself smiling in return. Her eyes lift back up to Frank's and linger; the moment stretches between them, the question of why answered, at least for her.

So she says, "It's the first."

Frank stills at that. The smile fades from his face, but his stare intensifies upon her rather than wavers. A second slides by, then two, before he speaks; when he does, his pitch matches hers, so soft for his hard boxer's face. "It should be the second."

Karen nods slowly. She looks away, out the window, at the cars passing by, at the rain puddled on the sidewalk. Lifting a hand, she pushes back her hair, lets the strands catch and slip between her fingers. She feels Frank watch her. Her pulse kicks up and she licks her lips, shifting her eyes back to Frank in time to see him jerks his from her mouth. "The second, huh?"

"Yes."

The terse response makes her smile, but it's a sharp one, that of a shark scenting blood. Or of a reporter scenting revelation. She lowers her hand and tilts her head to the side. "If that's the case, why'd you ask me here?"

Frank glares at her, but Karen arches a brow right back, not giving in. The staredown continues a couple seconds, then, abruptly, Frank lifts his mug. "How's the lawyer?"

The question snatches her breath. Karen gapes at Frank a moment before anger sets in, fisting her hands. "Don't."

"What?"

"Change the subject."

He takes a drink and swallows. "I'm not."

She reaches out then and grabs the mug from his hands, slapping it down so hard she spills a bit on the table. "Yes, you are. We're talking about you here. Not Matt."

Frank cocks a brow. "No?"

Karen reads the subtext beneath the question, in the sharp look of his eyes and quick draw of his breath. The question about her and Matt, about them together, her last talk with Frank occurring _before_ , before Daredevil, before the revelations about Stick and his war.

Before Elektra, dead but not dead.

Before the sound of her heart pounding fast and hard at the edge of a burning dock.

Karen straightens her shoulders and shakes her head at Frank. "No."

Frank tries to stay composed in the face of her response, but his composure abandons him as had hers. He lets out a long breath and closes his eyes, trying to regain control.

"You seem… relieved," she says, watching him.

He snorts, but doesn't open his eyes. "I'm not."

Karen frowns at him. "Why not?"

Frank opens his eyes and looks at her. There's no trace of humor on his face anymore, nor of his prior softness. Just a fierce, hot stare. "Why not? _Why not_? How do you think this is gonna end, Karen? With a white-picket fence and a house in the suburbs?" He shakes his head at that. "I can't ever have that again. This path I'm on, it ends one way, and you know it."

"And yet here you are, giving me this," she says, jabbing a finger at the manila envelope, "sitting here with me and having coffee."

He jerks his gaze away from her and his jaw goes tight. "Yeah, well, I shouldn't be."

"I don't care if you should or shouldn't be. I care that you are."

This brings his attention back to her. He peers at her through narrowed eyes, so long that the look becomes tangible, a heady presence up against her skin. Karen breathes fast, faster when he eases forward, bringing himself closer to her, his voice a low rumble as he says, "You seem to care a lot for someone you said was dead to you."

Karen lifts her chin into the air. "And you seem to be pretty lively for a dead man."

They glare at each other, she on her side of the table, he on his, Karen out in the cold and Frank hovering broken in the door. And how had that ended? Karen stumbling alone down the road and Frank gone for eight months. The fight leaves her at the thought, at the possibility of history repeating, despite her initial vow. Karen slumps back in the booth and sighs, a shaky one that causes the expression Frank's face to flicker, to expose to both the want for her and the hate for that want, not at her, but at himself, for wanting.

The revelation shifts her forward again. Karen wants to reach out and touch him, to lay her hand on his, but the fear that he'll bolt holds her back. Instead, she says, her voice low, "I didn't come here to fight with you. I don't want to. I said what I said, okay? And you did what you did. But you're here now. And so am I. And that's what matters."

Frank works his jaw to the side, fighting for control. "Is it? Because I haven't stopped. I'm still-"

"I know." Karen runs her hand through her hair again. She props her face in the palm of her hand and peers at Frank. They stare at each other, on the edge of this, this unexpected connection, this impossible bond brewing between them. Because he was right. His path ended one way: with him dead, either on the street or in prison, likely at the hands of Fisk. But should the ending end the beginning, prevent this possibility from blossoming, from blooming into something, something good, maybe even great? Karen shakes her head before the thought finishes. She sets her hand back on the table, between the coffee and the envelope. "I don't want any of that, you know. What you said. The picket fence and the house in the suburbs. I left that behind, too, when I left Vermont."

The revelation hangs between them, waiting for his follow through, but Frank bypasses the hint of disclosure to stare down at her hand instead. His gaze remains fixed there for five seconds, for ten, nearly twenty before he locks eyes with her again. And the expression on his face leaves her breathless, the intensity the same as before but the want for her, his desire, laid bare. Frank sets his hands on the table, too, close to hers, close enough to touch if he wanted, his fingertips inches from hers. "What _do_ you want?"

The husky tone shoots straight through Karen. She stares at the space between their hands, both a sliver and a swathe almost too wide to cross. But she does, placing light fingertips on the back of his hand. "I don't know," she says, voice breathless but sure. "Lunch, maybe, if you're hungry."

Frank shivers at her touch. "And after that?"

Karen shivers too, maybe from his tone, gravel and starlight, or from the freefall about to come. "Well, that depends on you." She lifts her gaze from their hands to his eyes. "On whether you hold on to this or let go."

The precipice teeters beneath them. Time slows, it almost stops, but it doesn't for her heartbeat tracks the seconds as Frank contemplates and decides. His hand twitches beneath hers and then it turns, slowly, so slowly, but coming to a rest palm to palm with hers. His fingers wrap around her hand, his grip callused and rough but gentle on her.

"And after?" he asks again, holding on, holding on so tight.

The dam bursts in Karen then. Shivering again, tears in her eyes, she runs her thumb along the back of Frank's hand. "Well, after I have to get back to work, but then…" She digs with her free hand into her bag, pulling out the index card that he left for her. Beneath the first address lies a second, this one written in loopy blue script. "Then," she says again, sliding the card across the table toward Frank, "you could come over. Maybe have a drink. Unless you have other plans."

Frank glances at the card, but he doesn't take it from her. He studies it then shakes his head at it and then he smiles, first at it and then at her, a slow one, one that sets her blood alight and makes her clutch at his hand.

"No, ma'am. I can't say that I do."


	2. Chapter 2

AN: These two have taken up permanent residence in my brain, so have some more Kastle. I, of course, do not own Karen Page or Frank Castle. They are owned by Marvel, Netflix, ABC, etc. I'm just playing in their sandbox for non-profit, entertainment purposes for a while.

One Worth Trusting

By: Wynn

She's late, of course, a local Congressman calling an unexpected press conference to confess his adultery and beg, tears and all, for forgiveness. Ellison had demanded a write-up of it afterward and then an edit and then a review of the files Frank had given her that afternoon. She hadn't set a specific time with Frank to meet, but she imagined after midnight to be too late even for him. He had shook his head at the offer of her phone number as they left the diner, claiming never to carry a phone, so Karen had no way to contact him to let him know she hadn't changed her mind, that, rather, the sins of the city demanded attention, a reason he'd well understand.

Striding down the hall to her apartment, Karen finishes her last text to Ellison then exchanges her phone for her keys in her purse. When she reaches her door, she lifts the key and slides it into the lock. Or she tries to. The key bounces off, rebounding off the door, no longer fitting the big brass monstrosity now in her door.

"What-"

Before she can finish the question, the door opens. Karen eases back a step, her breath stilling in her chest, then she sees Frank standing on the other side. She exhales in a rush then stills again, her gaze jerking from him to the new lock in the door. "Seriously? You changed the lock?"

He shrugs at her. "It was shit."

Karen gapes at him a moment before sighing. He was right. The lock had been shit; she couldn't argue about that. Shaking her head, she moves past him into her apartment. "Any other changes I should know about?"

"A few," he says as Karen dumps her purse onto the table by the door.

Turning, Karen sees him grab a bar from beside her glass cabinet. Frank shoves one end under the door handle; he wedges the other end against the floor. "Steel bar for your door," he says as he faces her. "Some your windows, too. And better locks. Ones people can't jimmy open. And this," he adds, pulling a cheap phone from his pocket.

Karen arches a brow at him. "I already have a phone."

"I know. This one's mine."

Frank presses the first speed dial and, a couple seconds later, her phone rings in her purse. Karen doesn't bother asking how he knew her number. She just stares at him instead, caught between irritation at his actions and understanding for the impulse behind them. And if that didn't sum up her feelings for Frank Castle, the man a murderer but one she understood. The man in question watches her, his brow furrowed but his jaw set, Frank willing to throw down over this, his efforts to keep her safe.

Sighing again, Karen points to the kitchenette behind him. "If you're so willing to do things for me, why don't you pour me a drink? I'm going to get changed."

His face softens, nearly into a smile. "Yes, ma'am."

Karen shakes her head, but a smile tugs at her lips too. Turing, she enters her bathroom, nestled by the entrance to her apartment. She spies Frank entering her kitchenette as she closes the door. Inside, she disrobes, hanging up her skirt and blouse for work and reaching for the pair of yoga pants and her soft blue sweater in a pile by the sink. Karen checks her teeth, runs a brush through her hair, considers and then discards any perfume. This wasn't a date. Or maybe it was, but one different from any other she'd been on before. At that, the memory of her one and only date with Matt pushes its way into her brain. Karen shoves it aside. She hadn't known Matt then, not really, not like she knows him now. Or like how she knows Frank. Maybe if she had, things would be different, Matt out in her apartment now rather than Frank, but they weren't. Frank was here and Matt wasn't. And that configuration fit Karen just fine.

Out of the bathroom, Karen finds Frank on the loveseat before the windows, two tumblers of whisky waiting for them on the chipped coffee table.

"You hungry?" she asks as she crosses the room.

Frank shakes his head. He wears the same black as he had during lunch. Karen glimpses his hat and jacket and what looks to be a loaded shoulder holster in a pile on the floor by his end of the coffee table. Frank watches her as she approaches, as she sits beside him and pulls her right leg beneath her so she can face him. The light from her bedside lamp illuminates his face along with the ambient glow from outside. With it and without his hat, she can see that he's let his hair grow out, obscuring the military cut that became synonymous with him during the trial.

"You look good," she says after a moment.

His brows lift. So too does a corner of his mouth.

Karen rolls her eyes, the alternate meaning behind her words processing. "I mean physically. No bruises," she adds, pointing to his face.

Frank shrugs. "Yeah, it's been a while since anyone's beat the shit out of me." He snorts then and reaches for his glass. "Though Red tried not too long ago."

"Red?"

Frank takes a sip of the whisky. "Yeah. Daredevil." There's a beat in which Frank stares at his drink then he shakes his head. "Fuckin' dumb name."

Karen goes still at the revelation. She tries to cover her reaction by reaching for her glass, but the gesture must fail for she finds Frank eyeing her as she leans back. Karen says nothing, just takes a drink of her whisky. Frank peers at her another moment then leans over and returns his glass to the table.

"It was interesting," he says as he straightens. "Me and Red this last time. Normally, it's all, 'You can't kill people, Frank. It's wrong,' and there was some of that, too, don't get me wrong. But there was more than that, too."

Karen takes another drink of her whisky. "Oh?"

"Yeah. This time he told me to stay away from you."

Karen's grip on her glass tightens, but she manages to keep her face composed, her only response arching a brow at Frank, at his presence here, now, on her couch.

He huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, Red and I don't exactly see eye to eye on a lot of things."

"You did," Karen says, easing her hold on her glass. "At least about this."

The humor fades from his face at the reference to his eight month absence from her life. Frank glances at his glass, but he doesn't take another drink. Karen resists too, though the lure of liquid courage draws her in. Rather, she pulls in a deep breath and says, "Are you… This isn't because of… him, is it? Daredevil, I mean." Karen drops her gaze to her glass, unable to look at Frank, to see the truth if it's yes. "And you- You being here."

Frank shifts. Karen stills as he twists around toward her, mirroring his pose. He lifts a hand and reaches out, hesitating just a second before he settles it over hers on her glass. Like his touch, his voice is soft when he says, "I'm not here 'cause he told me not to, okay? Red's got nothing to do with this. With you and me."

Karen lifts her gaze to his. The truth she sees has her taking her glass with her free hand, has her twisting her wrist until she's clasping his hand in hers. They hadn't touched beyond this at the diner and only then for a minute, long enough for Frank to summon Barbara back with a couple of menus. The nascent intimacy of the touch quickens her heart, this, perhaps, an indication or a promise of more.

"I got to admit," Frank says now, a spark of sly humor back in his eyes. "It did make me curious. What Red said. Why, you know, he'd say it. 'Cause I hadn't been near you, hadn't done nothing to piss him off, at least not about you, and yet here he was, waving his fist and his threats around. It got me to thinking. If _I_ hadn't done something to piss him off…"

"Then I had."

Frank smiles at her. "Bingo."

Karen shakes her head at him, but she's smiling too. "Okay," she says, pausing a moment to sip at her whisky. "I had done something. I'd been asking questions about you. Well, kind of about you. More about the dog fighting ring out in Jersey. You know, what happened to them." She tilts her head to the side and arches a brow at him. "It seemed like your handiwork."

Frank shrugs, as much of a confirmation as she was likely to get.

"And he- Daredevil- found out," Karen continues. The smile on her face falters at the memory of that particular conversation with Matt.

"Let me guess," Frank says. "He wasn't happy."

"No, he wasn't. He never is," she amends. "At least not about me." Frank doesn't ask, but Karen feels the weight of his unspoken question. Sighing, she taps a finger against her glass of whisky. "He thinks I'm reckless."

"You are." Frank shrugs again as Karen's eyes snap up to his. "I'm not judging here, sweetheart. Just stating a fact. You're one of the most goddamn reckless people I've ever met, and I spent a damn near decade with the Marines."

Karen fixates on the endearment, feels herself warm because of it, but she doesn't call him on it. Instead, she says, "Maybe, but that's my business, okay? Not his."

"Agreed."

"Good."

Frank's mouth twitches in a small smile. He leans over and grabs his glass, takes a drink and sets it back. Karen watches him as he does, her thoughts turning.

Frank catches her stare. "Something on your mind?"

Karen nods. "I get the timing of this. Why you made contact with me now and not before. For all you knew, I was still angry, so I get that. I just…" She looks down then, at their joined hands. The proof of his presence here strengthens her, so she looks back up at him and says, "You could have stayed gone. You didn't have to come back. Because you… You had a pretty clear response to what I said before. About you being dead to me. But you didn't stay gone. And I just… I wondered what changed. Because it's like you said. You haven't stopped, yet you're here, and I just- I…"

"Wondered."

Karen peers at him, her heart beating fast. "Yes."

Frank nods. He lifts his free hand and rubs it across his face, up and over the back of his head. It lingers on his neck a moment before he snags his glass from the table and downs the whisky.

"You don't have to-"

"I do. Christ." He lowers his glass to peer at her, doleful. "I just asked you to spill your guts, and you did. I can't fucking well say no after that."

"No, you really can't." She squeezes his hand to soften the blow of her agreement then tilts her head toward his empty glass. "You want another?"

"Shit, yes. Bring the bottle."

Laughing, Karen squeezes his hand again then she stands and moves to the kitchenette. Grabbing the bottle, she refills her glass, returns to the loveseat, pours Frank a liberal second serving, and then places the bottle within his reach. Frank gulps down the entirety of his glass, but he doesn't pour anymore. He stares at the bottle, though, as he begins.

"It was an accident. Or not. Because I chose to read it. Your article. The one about the group Red fought. The ninjas. I was looking for information about this scumbag I was trying to find, and I saw your name by the article. So I read it. That was all. I read it and I moved on. I had stuff to do and I made my choice." Frank pauses then, biting back some emotion with the clench of his jaw. A few seconds pass and then he says, softer, "I found another one 'bout a month later, I guess. I was waiting for this cockroach rapist to come home, so I read it. And then I just… kept doing it. Kept reading them." Frank blows out a breath. His eyes dart over to her and then away again. "I looked for 'em, sought 'em out. Barbara, she got to keeping a stack of _The Bulletin_ for me to look through when I came by. She didn't know why, just that sometimes- sometimes when I read them, I was… okay." He shrugs then, his gaze still not focused on her, but drifting around, from the table to the wall beyond. A small smile breaks his reverie. He sends it her way as he looks at her again. "I don't know shit about newspapers or what makes them good. But I liked what you wrote. I liked reading it, you going toe to toe with pieces of shit, tearing 'em down and making them pay. But then…" His smile fades and he averts his gaze. "But then I realized I liked them not because of what you wrote. But because- because you wrote them. Because they were _yours_. And I- Shit, I didn't think… I didn't think I'd ever… But there I was… _feeling_. And I got tired. I got so fucking tired of-"

Frank stops and pulls in a breath. The tremulous nature of it, the sheen of tears in his eyes, makes her ache. They make Karen want to reach for him, but she doesn't. She waits for him to continue instead. Yet the seconds tick by without revelation, so she says, softly, "Of what?"

"Of missing you."

He meets her eyes then, his expression raw, fierce and desperate. Because of her. Of how he feels about her. Karen strives for a steadying breath, but nothing within her feels steady. She licks her lips in another effort. Frank's gaze flits down, catches and hangs on her mouth. Heat unfurls slow within Karen at his look. She eases forward, closer to him. Her knee bumps his thigh. She pulls her leg beneath her, lifts herself up on it, and reaches out with her right hand toward him. Frank shivers as she lays a hand on his shoulder, as she nudges it back, opening him up toward her. She leans in. Frank stares at her, spellbound, his breath coming fast and shallow. Karen braces herself on his shoulder. She lifts her left hand and draws careful fingers against the strong line of his jaw, rough with stubble, with healing scrapes. She stops at his mouth, her fingers hovering above his lips, the lush top, snarling and sneering with others, a flat grim line, but soft with her.

"Is this okay?" she asks, her voice quiet in the hush of her apartment.

Frank gasps out half a laugh. "I ain't protesting."

"You aren't participating either."

This breaks his spellbound daze. He moves, heat firing his gaze as he reaches for her. Karen feels his hand settle on her waist. There's no hesitancy in his touch here, not like the diner or the touch of his hand on hers minutes before. His hold is sure, certain in its intent. A flash of want rushes through Karen. Frank lifts his left hand. He tangles his fingers in the lock of hair curling around her face and draws them, gentle, through the strands. Karen clenches his shoulder, trembling.

"Like fucking sunshine," he murmurs. Then he slides his hand to the back of her hand and draws her down the last few inches.

Any lingering hesitancy burns away when their lips touch. Frank kisses not like a dying man, but a living one, one suffused and renewed by desire. Karen clutches at his shoulder and his shirt, her hand falling away from his mouth when he caressed her hair. The world reduces to the taste of whisky on his lips and the grip of his hand on her waist, to the scratch of his stubble across her face and the sound that he makes when their tongues touch.

A moment later, he pulls away. Karen opens her eyes, finds his still closed and his chest heaving. "I ain't… I ain't ever been with anybody but Maria."

Karen eases back. Frank's hand slides from her head to her shoulder as she moves. He opens his eyes, but he turns his head away, gazing down to the coffee table instead. Karen tugs on his shirt until he faces her once more. "I don't want you to feel guilty about this. About me. About being here with me."

Frank's shaking his head before Karen even finishes. "I don't." At the arch of her brow, he sends her a wry smile. "Okay, I did. I stayed gone as long as I did because of it. But it's not because of my family, okay?" He pulls back a bit, settling again onto the loveseat. He doesn't let go though, clasping her hands as she sits too. "My family… They're gone. It still burns me up inside, but I said my goodbyes. It doesn't mean I don't miss 'em. Because I do. Every damn day, I do. But I don't…" He pauses and shakes his head, eyes flitting away from her. "I don't… I- Fuck." Frank shoots up from the loveseat, skirting the coffee table to pace the room. Karen watches as he rubs a hand along his head, as he bites down hard on his bottom lip. Then, abruptly, he stops and turns toward her. "You know what I do. Being here with you, doing what I do…" Frank grits his teeth and presses his lips flat, but Karen still sees the quiver of emotion in his jaw. "I'm no good. You said it yourself. I'm- I'm a…"

 _Monster_ goes unsaid.

Karen starts to stand. "Frank…"

"I ain't denying it. I'm not. I-"

"I killed someone, too."

Frank's mouth snaps shut. His eyes widen as he looks at her.

Karen means to stand, but the intensity of his gaze upon her and the revelation yet to come send her back down to the loveseat. Leaning over, she grabs her glass and mimics Frank from before- tossing back the whole lot before beginning. Karen licks the remainder from her lips. She feels a fine tremor jar her hands. Tightening her hold on the glass, she picks a spot on the floor to direct her gaze and begins.

"His name was Wesley. James Wesley. He, uh, he worked for Fisk. He was Fisk's right hand man basically. And he- he found out that I was investigating Fisk, looking into his past, trying to find anything I could to put him away. And Wesley… He took me. He threatened me. He said he was going to kill my friends, my family, everyone, if I didn't stop." She pauses. Her eyes cut to the bottle of whisky, more than half remaining, enough to drown the memories that rise to the fore. Beyond the bottle, though, she sees Frank, frozen in place, watching her. Karen sets her glass on the coffee table and folds her arms in on herself. "He tried to scare me," she continues. "He had a gun, but I got it and I shot him. Seven times, right in the chest. And I know… I know I should feel guilty. And I do. In a way. It was… awful. Doing it. Killing him. I-" Karen closes her mouth against the bile that rises in her throat, at the remembered smell of blood and gunpowder, the kick of the gun as she pulled the trigger again and again. She pulls in a long breath and tries to clear her head. Frank says nothing. Karen can't look at him, unsure of what she'll see, if he'll change how he looks at her as Matt had when she professed her belief in the efficacy of killing those who deserved to die. Those like Wesley. Her mouth compresses and the trembling of her hands stills. "Murder might not be right, but James Wesley dead? That is. That I don't regret. The world is better off without him. He and Fisk… They hurt so many people…" Her voice hitches, caught in remembrances of Ben and Daniel, of poor Mrs. Cardenas, all of them hurt by Wesley and Fisk. Frank moves then, back to the loveseat, pulling Karen out of herself. She looks at him again, her voice steadying. "I told you before. I can't judge you, Frank. I've _been_ you. I didn't even think about calling the police with Wesley. I could have. I had the gun, and I know he had a phone. He kidnapped and drugged me. There was proof. But I didn't even think about it. Because I knew if I did, he'd get free. Fisk had too many cops in his pocket, too many lawyers and judges. So I did it myself. I killed him." She tilts her chin in the air and stares him down. "So if you're a monster, then so am I."

Frank says nothing to that, or to the rest of her admission. He just stares at her, his mouth the flat, grim line of the Punisher. Then, quietly, "Does Fisk know about this?"

Karen starts to frown. "Frank-"

"Does he?"

Karen startles at the increase in volume and intensity. "No. No, if he did, I'd be dead."

Frank eases down at her response. But he doesn't calm completely. His gaze drifts from her, to the wall opposite them, painted and plastered but still bearing some scars from Schoonover's try on her life. Frank's mouth flattens again, and Karen wants to say something but she can't, thrown by his reaction. She expected condemnation or support, not a call to arms by the Punisher against Wilson Fisk. Karen reaches for the whisky and pours herself another glass. Fisk was, somehow, up for appeal in a month. The thought of Frank taking him on sends the tremor through her hands again. Frank may have fought a dozen men at one time, survived impossible situations like the explosion of the Blacksmith's boat, but Fisk was something different. Something bigger. Maybe with Matt, but the thought ends there, skittering off to the last time Matt, Frank, and Fisk crossed paths, when Frank escaped prison, when Fisk, possibly, if Matt were correct in his supposition, helped Frank escape.

The question starts before Karen can gauge the prudence of asking. "Did you…"

Frank turns to her, his brow softening. "Did I what?"

She hesitates, stalling with a sip of whisky. But the pull to know is too strong within her, so she swallows and says, "Did you see Fisk in prison?"

Frank eyes her, uncertainty flickering his gaze. "Yes."

Karen nods. She lifts her glass only to lower it a second later. "Did he… Did Fisk…" The words stick in her throat, the accusation distasteful.

"Just say it, Karen."

Her eyes snap up at his rough demand. Frank stares at her, breathing fast, his gaze wary but also resolute. Karen feels the ground tilt beneath them, she feels the reins slipping from her grasp, but she presses on, the truth demanding all. "Did Fisk help you escape?"

The change is subtle in Frank, a brief clench of his jaw, a stilling of his breath, but it's detectable and thus undeniable. It's all the proof Karen needs, though Frank confirms a second later with a stilted nod.

Karen averts her stare. She peers down at her glass, but doesn't lift it, doesn't even think of doing it, her stomach churning. Silence reigns, broken only the faint hum of her fridge. Then, turning to Frank again, Karen asks, the word bursting forth as a bullet from a gun, "Why?"

Frank considers her a beat before speaking. "Do you want to know why he helped me? Or why I let him?"

"Both."

Karen doesn't know if Frank hesitates or pauses to gather his thoughts. Each second that slides by ratchets up her pulse, makes it difficult for her to breath. "A guy in prison with Fisk," Frank begins slowly, "a piece of shit named Dutton, he was the one who set up the meeting between the Dogs, the Irish, and the Cartel."

"Why would Fisk tell you? Why would he care?"

Frank swallows hard then draws in a long breath. "Dutton ran the prison. Fisk didn't like that. He wanted to be the man in charge."

Karen pulls her shoulders back. "And Fisk wanted you to kill him."

"Yes. But you know that's not why I did it."

"Is that why he helped you escape? Was it a- a thank you?"

"No. The shitpile tried to kill me after. He locked me in Dutton's block with his cronies."

Karen looses a soft sigh. "So he did it to protect himself."

Frank doesn't respond. He pushes up from the loveseat instead and begins, once more, to pace the room. Unease sours Karen as he does. Leaning over, she sets her glass on the table. Her eyes track Frank across the room. His hands fist by his sides, seeking someone to fight, something to punch and maim and destroy.

"Just say it, Frank."

He jerks to a stop at her reciprocated command. The battle ready rage fades then, and in the dim light, Karen sees the same discomfort on his face as before. The same shame. "Fisk… He doesn't want anyone else taking over out here while he's in prison."

Her eyes widen in understanding. "So he let you out. To kill them. For him."

Frank twists toward her, his head shaking fast. "No. Absolutely not. There's no goddamn way in hell that I would _ever_ do anything for him. That scumbag knows, when he gets out, I'm coming for him."

"But he benefits. He runs that prison now."

"I know!" Frank presses his mouth flat and struggles for control. Breathing hard, he says, quieter, "I know he does. But what else could I have done? Not kill Dutton? Because that's justice for my family-"

Karen stands. "I know. God, Frank, I know. I'm not saying that. I just-"

"What?"

Karen shakes her head. She lifts a hand to her mouth and turns away, she moves away, over to her bed, seeking distance, escape from the memory, but she fails and begins to tremble, hot tears pricking her eyes.

"Karen… what-"

The question falters, Frank approaches. She hears his steps, soft but steady. She hears concern. Closing her eyes, Karen inhales, full and deep. The breath helps steady her. Lowering her hand, she faces Frank and opens her eyes.

"Fisk threatened Matt. Matt had gone to see him after you escaped, to ask him if he helped you. And Fisk…" She stumbles, the fear on Matt's face as he told her and Foggy the truth appearing stark in her memory, as unsettling now as it had been then. Swallowing hard, Karen says, "Fisk told Matt that he'd kill him when he got free. That he'd kill all the people responsible for putting him in prison. Matt and Foggy and…"

Frank closes the distance between them, his expression fierce once more. "He's not gonna get that chance. Ever."

Karen doesn't say it, but she thinks it, her traitorous brain thinks it, _You said that before_. With the Blacksmith, he'd said it before, that the Blacksmith would never get the chance to hurt her again. And then he'd used her as bait. Karen doesn't say it, but Frank still sees it on her face, the pain of the betrayal, the act a betrayal because she had trusted him, she trusted him, and he breaks.

"Frank-"

Frank shakes his head. He turns from her and returns to the coffee table, to the far end with his belongings.

His intention clarifies then. Breathless, Karen moves toward him. "Don't. Don't leave."

Frank ignores her, crouching down for his effects .

Karen picks up speed, reaching him as he straightens. "Goddamn it, Frank, _talk_ to me."

Frank looks at her then, his brow furrowed but his jaw set. "Forget about me. Forget I ever existed."

Karen gapes half a second before her eyes narrow and she crosses her arms over her chest. "No."

Frank returns her steady stare. His jaw works like he wants to respond, but all he does is press his lips flat and skirt around her for the door.

She moves without thinking, swiping his abandoned tumbler from her coffee table, fueled by the diner, by Frank refusing to look at her as he told her to get away from him, by the shack in the woods, by Frank ignoring her plea and closing the door in her face. Spinning around, she hurls the glass at the wall opposite her. It smashes upon impact, sending shards in all directions. Frank whirls at the sound, his eyes searching the windows as his hand reaches for his gun. He freezes and frowns and, finally, looks at Karen, at her clenched hands, at her heaving chest, at the wall to his right and the shattered remains of the glass.

"Don't you _dare_ walk away from me again," she says. "Not again. _You_ came back into my life. I didn't find you. _You_ came to me. You can't just waltz out because I've pissed you off."

His face twists in disbelief. "Is that what you think?"

"Why not? You won't fucking talk to me, so I don't know anything else."

"What do you want me to say, Karen? That Red was right? That I should have stayed away?"

Karen flounders at his explanation. But only for a moment. Then she narrows her eyes again and jabs a finger in his direction. "That is _my_ decision to make, not his."

Frank shakes his head. "It's not _his_ decision. It's mine. It's mine, Karen. I can't- I can't do this." His chest shudders as he tries to breathe. "I can't drag you down with me."

Again, she gapes. Hands lifting, Karen runs them through her hair, gripping the ends tight. "Oh my god. I am so _sick_ of this martyr bullshit."

"Bullshit?"

Karen lowers her hands to her sides. "Yes. Bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. You think if you just walk away, that I'll be safe? That I'll never be in danger again?" She laughs, a harsh one. "Christ, Frank. The last person who had my job was _murdered_ , in his own apartment, because of an article he was writing. And I was framed for murder because I was digging too deep into my last job. I was kidnapped and I was threatened because of questions I was asking about Fisk. And Schoonover shot at me, he shot up my apartment _after_ he shot Reyes right in front of me, and I _still_ kept asking questions. So don't sell me any of this 'I'm doing this for your own protection, Karen' because that's _bullshit_. If you walk out that door, it wouldn't be because of what you do. It would be because of who you are."

"You're goddamned right that's why! What I do, that is who I am. I'm a killer. I killed so many people I don't even know how many anymore. And I'm a liar. I make deals with devils, and I sold you out for-" He stops, his jaw snapping shut. Frank breathes fast, and Karen finds herself cooling as he struggles for control, as he gaze flits around the room, searching for something, for something to throw, something to punch, something to rage against and ruin, but there's nothing so he just shakes his head, staring down at the floor.

"I told you before, I'm no good. I'm not. No man does what I do. Not any of it. Not a good one. One worth-" Frank stops again, breath hitching in his chest. He closes his eyes. From across the room, she can see him tremble. Karen wants to move toward him, to reach for his hand and hold him, draw him into her arms, back to the past, to twenty minutes before, she in his arms and fire in her blood as they kissed, but Frank opens his eyes then and all Karen sees is the shack, his expression cold and hollow, empty as a grave.

"Forget about me. I'm done. I'm dead. I'm gone. There's nothing here. I burnt it all away, traded it for revenge. That's all I am, and if you stay with me, that's all you'll be too. You- who you are- all of that, will be gone. And I can't- I can't do that. I can't do that, Karen. Not to you."

He turns then, striding for the door, his steps stiff and swift. Karen watches, tears in her eyes, as he snatches her new keys from the top of her cabinet and unlocks her door. He drops them back after, but doesn't reach for the door. He stands, frozen, a moment then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Karen watches as he drops it by the keys, as he reaches for the door and opens it, as he moves through and, without looking back, walks away.


End file.
